


Hope In The Darkness

by WordCollector



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Dissociation, Drowning, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Isolation, No Main Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordCollector/pseuds/WordCollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra is order.<br/>Hydra fed him, clothed him, made him into what he is today. Without Hydra he would have died 70 years ago.<br/>Returning to Hydra should be his only option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilerish for Captain America Civil War. 
> 
> Inspired by the flood of recent Captain America Civil War trailers and interviews.

One of Bucky’s first and most solid memories was of lies. He knew Hydra had lied to him. Pierce had lied to him. His team lied to him. Those were unimportant lies. 

Everything Bucky remembered about Steve Rogers was lies. Steve lied about his health, where the bruises came from, even on official forms. He lied to his family and friends. Noble Steve Rogers lied when it suited him. For some reason those lies meant more than the rest.

A headache formed behind his eyes as he tried to put the jumble of memories into a solid form. He sat on a bench and sorted through half conversations, faces with no names, and random places. Hydra taught him that Museums were propaganda, but he needed to start somewhere. 

In a museum, Bucky found a whole wing on him. Not just any museum. The Smithsonian. A whole wing on the paragon of virtue, Steve Rogers the hero. Americans believed the fiction. 

After Hydra was exposed, things became confusing. More confusing. Bucky needed facts, and was disappointed to realize he might not find them here. 

After a few minutes of standing in front of the display about himself, he kept rolling the name around in his mind. Bucky, Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky. It didn’t seem to fit. The last few days nothing seemed to fit. 

He thought about Hydra. They didn’t call him by name. Hydra could wait, he needed more information before going back to the lies. 

Wandering the streets, he gazed into a bookstore window. Tucking his hair behind his ear, he entered and slowly browsed the aisles. Soon, he found himself thumbing through the history section. There were so many books. Interestingly, there were dozens of different opinions on every major event. They were all wrong, but the authors made good theories based on the information available.

Time flew by in the bookstore. He saw people in armchairs reading, thought about joining them. He was unshaven and in rumpled clothes. The employees were eyeing the old backpack slung over his shoulder. He couldn’t linger much longer.  
The whole store smelled of coffee. On his way out he gazed into the glass case of pastries. They looked amazing, his mouth watered and he hurried out. 

Seeing the world unfiltered, he was less sure he could go back to Hydra. He always knew they were lying. For a while, he didn’t know they were Hydra. When he found out the truth, it was too late. They had made a machine to make him believe anything they said. 

The war made some omissions necessary. In the army, he was used to the fact that no one told the grunts the truth. They just get orders. 

Take that hill. Knock out that bunker. Hold your position on this ridge. No one tells you that you are out numbered, outgunned, or just a diversion for the main force. A sacrifice. A pawn to be thrown away for the greater good. 

But being a pawn, and saving the world, or a pawn who is about to kill millions. There is a difference. 

He needed to know the truth. 

He was left with more questions than he answered. 

He didn’t know where to go.

Lying low was a skill he had learned from many Hydra missions. Hydra often gave him a long leash. Thinking back, he could remember hours with just a small support team, watching targets, assessing routes, judging the right time to make a clean kill. Memories of blood always bring more memories right on their heels, until he thinks he might drown in them. 

Wandering the streets, he eventually found himself a familiar area. In the middle of a run down block, inside a closed storefront, he found a Hydra base. He used the word base, but it was more a way station, or outpost. Now, it was abandoned, cleaned out after Hydra’s files hit the internet. 

With his left hand, he pops the lock off the rusty metal back door. Pushes into the dark stock room, pauses just inside the door. He stops and breathes. It has been eight days he has been free from Hydra. There is nothing Hydra left in here, but for the first time in eight days he feels safe. He remembers this room, the shelves had been full of boxes. Cans of peas, carrots, corn. The boxes are mostly still there, but one whole section has been thrown to the floor. Shelves wiped clean, the floor below covered with debris. Smashed cardboard boxes spill their contents, cans lie dented, scattered on the floor. 

He pulls at a latch behind the shelves, and finds the hidden gun racks are empty. That doesn’t bother him. He didn’t want any more guns. There is other stuff, burned half credit cards that he could have used. The emergency cash is gone. Electronics lie in a smashed jumble. Some he recognizes, some he doesn’t. Wire taps and tiny tracking devices, are just a pile of crushed plastic and wires. 

To the side of the shelves, he pushes a latch and the whole row of shelves roll outward. They hang up on the cans on the floor, and he has to clear them away with his boot. Finally, he is able to open the hole enough that he can squeeze in. 

The small room is dusty. It has been a while since he was here. It has been a while since anyone was in here. Most Hydra operatives went home in the evening. This tiny room with its old army cot and wall-mounted, thick metal rings was for him. There are no windows, and all four walls are cinder-block. The only things in the room are the cot, the metal rings, and a four foot red Hydra logo painted onto the dark gray walls. Hydra wanted him to remember who owned him, even if he couldn’t remember anything else. 

He dumped his backpack in a corner, and sat on the cot. For a minute he felt peace. The confusion and stress seemed to melt away. Hydra brought order. Suddenly he felt more tired than he had been in a while. He started to sag down onto the cot. Pulling his coat tighter around himself, he lie on his side. As he pulled his legs up, he paused, then stretched out one leg. Using his toe, he slid the door almost closed. He didn’t want to lock himself in. It was doubtful anyone was coming back to let him out. The room was reinforced and soundproof. If he locked himself in, he could be stuck in here for a long time.

Pulling his legs up onto the cot, he drifted off to sleep immediately. It felt like his eyes had just closed, when he woke on a yell, heart hammering and sweating. Shakily he got up and opened the door. He examined the lock from the outside, sliding his fingers into each of the plates and checking the locks from both sides. With a swift twist of his left hand he pulled the outside doorknob off. Using his thumb, he pushed the tumblers and metal bolts through the hole in the reinforced steel door. After crushing all three locks, and running his hand over the wall to make sure there weren’t any hidden locks, he turned and pulled the door closed. There was no knob on the interior. The door was smooth, but without locks he could pry it open. Most importantly, his dreams wouldn’t have anyone calling the cops. He took a deep breath, relieved. 

It was pitch black inside. Not the kind of black your eyes adjust to. The kind where you can’t see your hand in front of your face. Everything is just darkness. Like being blind. He didn’t need to see though. There was only two feet between the bed and wall. 

He slumped back onto the bed again. When he lie back, he draped his arm over his eyes. It gave the illusion that he could control his vision. If he opened his eyes, it was his arm blocking his sight. This was a technique he had used many times before. It felt strange knowing he could open the door, let some light in. He could go outside and get a flashlight. Bring in a lamp. 

Instead, he lie in the pitch dark. A weight lifted off his chest that he didn’t know was there. Hot tears rolled down his temples into his hair, by the time they made it to his ears they had grown cold.

He shivered, he didn’t want to go back to Hydra. 

He couldn’t go anywhere else. 

Home was gone. 

His friends were gone.

Everyone thought he was dead. The few that didn’t, thought he was a murderer. They were looking for him. He didn’t want to be found by them.

The only people alive who thought he wasn’t a murderer were Hydra. They knew he didn’t do those things willingly. They knew how long he held out. They knew he would never knowingly betray his country. They knew the things he didn’t want anyone to know.

He couldn’t go back to Hydra. He wouldn’t go back to Hydra. Why did it hurt so much to be cut off from Hydra?

He didn’t know where else to go.

Eventually he slept, and this time he dreams about Steve. The big liar who had been a little liar. He said Bucky was his friend. He looked so sincere.

He had said “Till the end of the line.” That had been a lie too, hadn’t it? Why did he remember it in his own voice? He hated thinking about Steve Rogers. It made his head hurt. On the first days after the crash, all he could think about was the things Steve said, and how they fit in to all of the fragments of memories that kept rolling around in his head. He would try to piece things together till he was dizzy. Left with his head pounding, and more confused. Every time he solidifies one memory and finally has a little something, a tiny piece to hold onto, four more half formed memories come with it. 

On the uncomfortable cot, he dreams about Steve sitting at a table eating soup. Steve was talking about the war, and was angrily pointing at an article in the paper. He was angry at the Nazi’s. It shifted, and dream Bucky was wearing a Hydra uniform. Steve didn’t seem to notice, just kept talking and pointing. Bucky was ashamed, but Steve didn’t see. In the dark cell, Bucky woke with a lump in his throat. 

Lying back on the cot in the dark, Bucky tried to go back to sleep. Frequently his dreams were clearer than his memories. Sometimes the memories were so vivid he felt like he was there. Like it happened five minutes ago. Usually, these memories involved blood. The clearest ones involved guilt. Guilt like Captain America’s best friend working for Hydra. Hydra and the Nazi Party, during the war they seemed like they were one and the same. But in reality Hydra was everywhere, and even worse.

There was no escaping Hydra.

Finally, he began the slide into sleep again. While he hovered between dreaming and awake, he felt tentacles brush his cheek. He froze, a thin layer of sweat suddenly making his face cold. Frozen in place, he heard the coiling and rolling. Smelled the sea. The blood red logo on the wall slowly came to life. Cold damp tentacles slid around his throat, another around the arm covering his eyes. Locking it in place. He opened his mouth to gasp, and he couldn’t get any air. The sound of choking was loud in the tiny room. Darkness pushed down, he thought he would pass out, then he gasped awake. He rolled off the bed onto his hands and knees, putting his forehead on the cold cement floor. 

After what felt like an eternity, he was able to get his shaky legs under him and move towards the door. Stumbling through, he tripped and landed on his knees amidst the cans and cardboard. Wide eyed he searched the room, afraid of handlers that were no longer there.

Ghosts.

No, not ghosts. Some were dead. Some had been arrested. Many more were still within the system. Waiting till the time was right to reform and grow new heads. 

Pushing his hair back from his face, he let out a few shaky breaths. Eventually, his heart slowed, and he sat back. Motionless, he remained on the floor, in the midst of the cans till his legs went numb. 

He raised his head when his stomach rumbled. Angrily he kicked the cans away. He wanted coffee and a doughnut. No one was going to make him eat cold canned food. Except, he had no money. Stealing wasn’t an option. Not right now. Grabbing a random can, he pushed his left thumb into the top. After sniffing the can of corn, he sipped off the liquid and began pouring corn into his mouth. 

Sighing, he has had worse. 

If he wants better, he has to make that for himself. He could make better. He would work. Get a job. Buy himself a damn cup of coffee if he wanted it. 

He can do this.

He stands. Straightens. Wipes the dust from his knees and walks out. He feels the sun shine on his face and doesn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

It took more than a few months to get on his feet. He thought it would be easier. 

Hydra had spent a lot of dough to make him made him into an Asset. He was able to do the most difficult jobs in the worst conditions. He was feared by the few who knew he existed. They had called him the Winter Soldier. 

Now, he barely scrapes by with three part time, under the table jobs and a tiny apartment. It’s less of an apartment, more of a room for rent above some guy’s garage. Guy smokes too much weed. The guy also needs more cash to pay for the new pickup truck in the driveway, so he rents out a room above his garage. Not a legal, checked by the local housing people, apartment. More of a small attic space with a bathroom. The guy won’t make trouble with James, if James doesn’t make trouble with him. It works out for both of them. 

Bucky goes by James now. 

It was over a month ago, he had a close call. The guy behind the counter at a take out joint, looked at him squirrely eyed when he said gave the name ‘Bucky’. The guy got out a “Hey? You look just like Bucky Barnes from the Howling…” before Bucky was out the door in a full sweat. By the next morning he had left the state, and the tiny furnished room in a retired couples back yard. Their pool house had been turned into a rental income, to help them in their old age. 

He missed the view. He would pretend it was his. Living large with beautiful blue water right outside his sliding glass door. They said he could swim if he wanted. He couldn’t, because of the arm. But, they didn’t know that. He would sometimes dangle his feet, lean back and enjoy the sun on his face. The long sleeves looked odd on hot days, but they didn’t ask. They also took partial rent payment in the form of his doing all of the lawn work. He liked it. Never had his own lawn before. The house had one huge yard, took forever to just mow the grass, but they had the tools. It turns out a riding mower can almost be a Zen experience. The only down side was that the weed eater gave him some odd feedback in his metal arm. Made it feel all tingly for hours afterwards.

This new place over the garage looks out at a rusted tireless car on blocks in the neighbors yard. Not even a classic car. Just a crap car in a weedy yard. Every day he comes home and realizes that one slip up can take him from crisp clean pool house to drafty stained garage walls. It’s his penance for the mistake. 

He works three jobs here. He moved north after the pool house. Here he takes hard work, tries to get a bit of cash in his hand. He has also discovered that hard work makes it easier to sleep. The pool house was nice, but thankfully the old couple were hard of hearing. He had nightmares almost every single night there. It was as if his brain was punishing him for having something nice. 

The pool house was an oasis. The furniture was clean, wicker chairs and simple futon, they decorated with a tropical feel. Looked like Hawaii. For three weeks, he had something that resembled peace. Now though, when he microwaves dinner, he sits back in his stained musty recliner, he doesn’t see the rusty car outside his window. Instead, he imagines himself by the pool. He turns on some low music and tries to pretend. Those memories can hold him over for a lifetime. 

He did it when Hydra had him.

Horrible conditions were no big deal for him. Maybe that’s how he survived. 

Knee deep snow, blizzard conditions. He imagined himself at a ski lodge. Or, he was a Mohawk Indian in the Catskills, famed for bringing back the best meat for his tribe. He walked silently through the dense forest, carrying his rifle, tracking his prey. Nothing could escape him. 

Hydra drops him off in the desert. He could be an archaeologist on an expedition to the great pyramids. Sometimes, in the desert he was an astronaut on Mars. He had to kill the green skinned aliens, while his unsuspecting family was safe back home.

He visualized. It was how he focused. Ironically, Hydra wanted him focused, then did their damnedest to scramble his brain. 

A sniper is supposed to be focused. Now, that he had most of his memories he remembers being a sniper in the war. He used to visualize a lot then too. 

That might be what kept him alive when they captured him during the war and did their experiments. His ability to be somewhere else. His focus. 

That has gone to shit now. 

He had refined the ability as the Winter Soldier. Steve Rogers just blew that out of the water. It has taken him months of nightmares and putting the pieces together. He had a little Zen on the mower. 

Now, after a hard day hauling mulch and gravel, he can sleep. Sometimes a dreamless sleep if he is tired enough. 

It is harder during the day. He remembers stuff. He looks at a blue Audi and remembers the tall Ambassador who died in front of his beautiful wife. He hears her horrified screams clear as day. 

Everything he looks at is a possible landmine of memory. Tin can of baked beans, good memory of sitting at super in Brooklyn. Tin can of spicy beans, memory of shooting a man as he emerged from the grocery store. Paper grocery bag falls, jars smash. A can of Spicy beans rolling through the puddle of blood before it came to a stop. Sometimes he is lucky. Tin can of artichokes, no memory at all. They are expensive, but he likes canned artichokes now. 

He thinks he has all of his memories. He thinks they are all back, but every few days one will pop up. Last week, he was shoveling gravel when he heard a bird call and he was sucked into a memory. Must have been standing there frozen for a while, because when he started to come round, all five hired hands and the foreman were standing around him. 

Their eyes were wide and frightened, they might have been talking, he wasn’t sure. He glanced around and let out a shaky breath. The foreman yelled “Show’s over. Get back to work.” The foreman, who was mostly a jerk, gently took his arm and led him back to the pickup truck. He had James sit on the tailgate and sip at some water. Later that day, he bought James some lunch. That evening he docked James an hour’s pay for the time he wasn’t working. The guy is still mostly a jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr too, come by and visit. It's mostly Captain America with a few of the other Avengers thrown in. http://stickypostbasement.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

Autumn finds him in the Midwest, in the middle of a move. He waits in a busy bus station, sitting on a wooden bench painted bright blue. A solid army duffel is leaning against his leg, stuffed with almost everything he owns. He sits tipped forward, unable to get comfortable because of the small backpack cinched tight around his shoulders. 

Most of his cash went into a bus ticket, trying to get somewhere warmer. Possibly Florida. There was a kid in his unit, had relatives in Florida. Bucky would like to see an alligator. On the other hand, he hears that there are mosquitoes big enough to carry you away. Maybe he will stop in Georgia. They have mountains there, and warm weather, possibly less mosquitoes. He’s torn. Florida has white sand and sunny beaches. He could mow people’s lawns there. He could work on a plantation with a big house. Walk streets lined with old oaks covered in hanging Spanish moss. Pick juicy oranges right off of the trees. 

He has been waiting for the bus for a while now, daydreaming. The sun is shining, but the breeze is cold. Golden leaves tumble from a tree as another cold gust hits. He watches them fall like rain, then swirl around the parking lot between the cars. A black Chevy SUV idles while the driver is on his phone. 

Calmly, Bucky takes a deep breath, leans down and picks up his duffel bag. He glances around, reading the signs. Slowly, he walks towards the men’s room. A heavy man in plaid is at the urinal. Bucky beelines for a stall. Once inside, he throws his duffel on top of the toilet and locks the stall. After the guy leaves, he slides under the wall, into the next stall. Quickly, he hauls himself out of the window. He still has his backpack. It has the essentials for survival. The duffel, was just the niceties. 

Bucky is quickly and efficiently working his way out of the station. He knows what to look for. Spots two sets of operatives entering the main building, swiftly he ducks down a side hall. 

Her red hair is like a flame. He wonders why she keeps it. It is as obvious as Steve’s shield. She stands at the end of an almost windowless corridor, casually looks over at him through the waiting travelers. His heart is in his throat. They are surrounding him, herding him into her trap. She looks like she has been waiting for him, half a smile on her lips. 

He isn’t sure if he should run. There are still people in the corridor. Civilians would hinder her, get in her way, but he hesitates. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He slows trying to make a decision, then it clicks. There are no civilians in this corridor. Everyone is an operative. Even the old man with the cane. He isn’t leaning on the cane like someone who knows what pain is. It’s a prop. 

Bucky needs to get out of this corridor now. He moves directly towards the Black Widow, seemingly deeper into her trap. Suddenly he turns, jumps onto a snack counter. Leaping off, his left hand digs into the drywall, propels him up, out of a window nearly 20 feet off the ground. Smashing through, he lands outside in a hail of broken glass.

As soon as his feet hit the sidewalk he breaks into a run. Agents pour from the doors at the end of the station. More run towards him from the parking lot. When he is running flat out, the agents can’t keep up. He breaks away. As he leaves the station behind, more agents materialize from the parking lot. He changes course. Soon he’ll be surrounded again. 

Approaching the lot entrance, he jumps in front of a car. The surprised driver stops, and Bucky pops open the door, yanks him out. In Bucky’s panic, the driver is hurtled ten feet into the air. Luckily he lands in some bushes. 

Griping the steering wheel hard enough to crack, he speeds out of the lot. Two vehicles swerve, try to block his path. He jumps over a median, and between oncoming cars. Once on the highway, he floors it. Takes the very next ramp and quickly ditches the car in a parking lot, jumping into another car. Within seconds it is hotwired and he is on the road trying to stay within the speed limit, and blend into traffic. He ditches his hat, and pulls his sunglasses from his pocket. Hopefully, they won’t see him. 

His heart doesn’t slow until he is two states away. He finds an abandoned farm house in the country and parks behind it. Sleeps curled into a ball in the back seat of the stolen car. Blames his shaking on the biting cold. Dawn brings a few light snowflakes, and a day of heavy gray clouds. He contemplates walking into the dense forest, just himself and the clothes on his back. He would survive. He has survived worse. If he lived off the land would they come find him? Would the constant ache that comes from being on the run eventually loosen it’s grip on his chest? Would he be able to breathe hidden away in the woods?

Would he want to? 

He hops back into the car and aims south. He had been driving northwest. He feels like he is going around in circles. Maybe he is. 

Alabama has TV commercials showing sunny beaches. Maybe he can go there. Later, he can work his way across to Florida. 

It takes three car switches and a few course corrections before he finds himself on a beach. The sun warms his face as he sits on the beach in jeans and long sleeve shirt. The lapping waves are calming, the gentle breeze smells salty. There aren’t many people on the beach, but the few that are there stare at him. They gesture at the gloves and laugh, he might as well be wearing a parka. He should have stolen a motorcycle, then the gloves would make sense. 

Tonight he is getting himself a motorcycle. When he first left Hydra, he didn’t want to steal anything. The near capture spooked him. Left his morals somewhere in a bus depot. He wants Florida and a motorcycle. 

As the sun sets, he walks past an apartment complex, sees a nice bike in the lot. Casually, he walks closer. He will come back after midnight. The bike will be gone in the morning when the owner wakes up. As he walks down the sidewalk, he sees a tall young guy come out of an apartment. He is walking with a young woman in a nurses outfit and holding hands with a four year old. 

The kid hugs the guy. Yells out for all the world to hear “Love you daddy!” the guy yells back “Love you too.” 

The wife waves as she bundles the kid into his car seat. “See you after work.” she says as she pecks his cheek, then gets in her car while he puts on his helmet.

The kid rolls his window down as they back out “Have fun at the factory!” he yells.

“Sure thing champ!” the dad yells back. 

Pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders, Bucky turns the corner, wanders out of the apartment complex. Sits on a curb in an alley and counts the cash he has left. He has just enough, if he doesn’t eat. Maybe he can try the bus again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr too, come by and visit. It's mostly Captain America with a few of the other Avengers thrown in. http://stickypostbasement.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

His heart is in his throat as he approaches the bus station. He prays that they wouldn’t think he would try the same thing twice. Especially, so soon after that spectacular chase barely a week ago. It is strange being the one hunted. He doesn’t like it. He enters the station as close to departure time as he can. 

He should just drive, but doesn’t like stealing. It makes him feel guilty. He has enough guilt. He doesn’t want to add to it. Just last week he stole four cars. He isn’t so noble to say he’ll never do it again. When his life is on the line, he will do anything to survive. Instinct trumps good intentions. 

The uniformed man sells him a ticket and barely looks up. The attendant doesn’t notice the sweat on Bucky’s forehead, the unsteady soft voice as he asks for the ticket. Bucky tried to clean up before coming into the station. His goal is to be invisible. There is a strange mix of people here. This small town station has less security, less cameras. But there are still cameras. The world is full of them now. 

Ticket clutched in his hand he moves towards the platform. He leans against the wall, tries to look casual. Consciously breathes deeply, counts his breaths. Feels the people mill around him, and doesn’t react. The hum of conversation is broken by the intercom announcing departures and delays. 

His bus is delayed. 

He contemplates walking out. His heart is beating rabbit fast, and he has crumpled his ticket. Doesn’t realize he is shaking until he sees the white paper flutter. He jams it in his pocket.

“Sandwich?” Someone says. There is a touch at his elbow. She repeats “Sandwich? I’ve got plenty.” as he looks down.

Startled, he froze, he hadn’t realized someone was seated so close to him. She looked to be in her sixties, had a big suitcase at her feet. She is looking up and holding a sandwich wrapped in a plastic bag out to him. Two slices of rye bread, and some cheese and meat. 

He just blinks at her. Slowly pulls his hand from his pocket to take it. When he does, she slides over. Squeezes closer to the man next to her, and pats the bench. 

He lowers himself down, and takes a bite of the sandwich. It is the best sandwich he has ever eaten. Has everything, not just meat and cheese. There is tomato, lettuce, mayo and some sauce he can’t identify. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. After three more big bites, he remembers his manners. Ducks his head and mumbles “Thanks” around a mouthful of sandwich.

She smiles. His chest unknots a little bit. “Stupid bus is always late.” She grumbled “I take this thing once a month to see my mom in the home.” she adds. “Can’t make up my mind which is slower, bus or train.”

He barks out a laugh, almost chokes on a bit of sandwich at the unexpected sound. The laugh turns into a cough.

After she looks over to make sure he is okay, she adds “Easy there. It would be bad karma if I kill you with that sandwich.” then she gives him a crooked smile.

He smiles back, rubs the back of his gloved hand over his mouth. Uses the same hand holding the sandwich. Never pulls the left from his pocket. She looks down at his left hand, and her smile drops a little. 

His smile drops, he wonders if she thinks he has a gun. He would think she had a gun if her hand never left her pocket. He clears his throat and slowly pulls his hand out. It has a glove on. He is safe. He tries to casually rest the left hand on his leg, like it is no big deal. He doesn’t want to scare her. But the air between them has changed. He doesn’t have the skills anymore to bring the lightness back.

“Is that metal?” she asks. He looks up at her. Her brown eyes are looking right back at him, then glance down towards his wrist.

He breaks out into a sweat. Sees the shining metal poking out of his sleeve. He hadn’t noticed the glove flipped up at the wrist. Quickly, he reached over and fixes the glove, drags his cuff down.

She continues on, even though he never answered her. “I have an Uncle, lost a couple of fingers in a lawn mower. On his left hand too, but he was a lefty. Had the worst hand-writing after. Still could fix anything though. Fixing stuff is more in the mind than in the hands. But, he could get it done a lot faster with more fingers.”

Nodding he tries to smile again. She smiles back. 

This is his first conversation with someone in over a month. He looks at her, for the first time in a long time, he feels something. 

This is why he can’t just hide in the forest. Sitting on a bench with someone who is kind. This is enough.

When the bus arrives, he gets her bag. Inside the bus she asks where he wants to sit, takes the seat next to him. She sleeps part of the way. It feels comfortable, strangely safe. He wants to go with her. Visit her mom. Have her adopt him. Maybe he should adopt her. When she wakes, she tells him a few funny stories about previous bus trips, and her mom. 

He mom’s name is Ann. She shows him a picture of Ann, who looks like an older, darker version of the woman sitting next to him. He smiles and nods. Her mom just turned eighty five. He thinks her mom was probably pretty when she was young. He looks over, and thinks ‘pretty like her daughter’. He wants to say it, but the words won’t come. He just smiles at her stories, and waves at her when she gets off. 

His eyes feel hot as the bus pulls away. He slumps down in the seat and tries to sleep. 

When they pull up to the bus station in Georgia, they have to change busses. It’s in the middle of a busy bus station, and he clutches his ticket, reading platform numbers. When he gets there, his bus is already boarding. He waits till it’s ready to leave, then get on. This bus is only half full, and he gets a seat alone. As it begins to pull away, he notices it is running right on time. He takes a sly glance around, then punches out the window and jumps from the moving bus. 

The bus immediately jerks to a halt. The glass on the bus was reinforced, but he goes right through it. It isn’t a normal bus. But, he isn’t a normal man. He has punched through metal. Reinforced glass isn’t a problem. He doesn’t care if Stark made it himself. 

As soon as his boots hit the asphalt, agents stream from the building. He runs. The agents inside the bus drop their disguise, and pull their weapons. They jump from the bus.

Running out towards the parking lot, he hears a helicopter. It is fast. Must be military. Moves in close overhead. He tries to run faster, but he is in the road, there is no cover. It fires to the left side, he can feel the shrapnel hit his coat as the debris is kicked up from the rounds. Feels the smoke in his lungs. He runs right, turns towards a car. Sees the fear in the drivers eyes as he runs towards it. The helicopter fires between him and the vehicle. He won’t make it.

Turns and runs back left towards the parking lot. The helicopter fires again, His left arm covers his head. Rounds ring off his metal arm, push him with their force. He stumbles, then slides under a parked car. The pilot is out for blood.

Quickly, he crawls toward a manhole cover. Yanking the cover off, he tumbles into the sewer below. Knows this is the perfect place for them to trap him. He isn’t proven wrong. There is an electronic net he at the end. Sparks ripple over him like a glowing wave, and it sends him to his knees. Agents in black surround him, but he shoves through them, finding his feet again. The net sparks them too, sends them into confusion. He rips it off himself, throws it over an agent and barrels down the sewer. Rounds crack against the walls, loud in the enclosed space. Two hit his metal shoulder, and one hits flesh. He doesn’t even slow. 

At the next ladder, he launches himself up. Shoves away a manhole cover and emerges to a ring of rifles. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Barrels right through them. They risk hitting each other they are so close. They fire anyways and he is hit two more times, one in the hip one in the stomach. He uses their own close formation against them. Turns them into human shields. He sprints towards the parking garage and its solid concrete supports. It is just feet away. 

He jumps. Leaps up, off a cement barricade, jumps up to the next floor. Finds a stairwell, jumps up again, takes the stairs a flight at a time. Near the top he braces himself. Hears the choppers get close. There are more now. One lands on the roof. He could take it. He will figure out where to take it later. 

He shoves through the door to the roof and almost tumbles. Arms flail as he stops quick. She is looking at him as she steps off one of the choppers. He turns tail and runs back into the parking garage. Jumping down the stars quicker than he went up, he stops at a floor mid way. When he leaves the stairwell, she is there again, casually removing a rope from her belt. 

She pulls out a pistol. He ducks behind a support post. Bending low, he runs using the cars as cover. She is in front of him when he turns a corner. He stops, but she is fast. Kicks him in the face. He tumbles and goes down hard. Her legs come again, but he grabs her and throws her to the side. 

It takes him a second to recover. It is enough time that she is back, she hits him with a tiny taser, and he pulls it off, crushing it. He rolls under a car for cover. She is too close for that. She gets him again, and he bites his own tongue. Pressed flat under the car he can’t reach the taser on his back. Has to endure it till he slides out the other side.

Finally, when he pulls it off, his heart is pounding hard. He flounders, unable to get his feet under him. His legs feel weak, he is having trouble standing. If he doesn’t get back up they will kill him. He hauls himself up using his arms. Denting a car with his wild clawing, he leaves bloody smears and handprints on the side. His forearm knocks off the side mirror. 

The Widow is there. She is always there. Just watching. Waiting. 

He struggles like a wounded animal, and she is the hunter waiting to put him out of his misery. 

She steps forward, and he steps back. He looks at her face and he would think she almost looks sad. “Stay down.” She says.

He can’t. He survived years of torture because he doesn’t know how. He keeps trying to get moving. Get up. Survive.

He topples, lands on a knee. Notices sees a construction trash chute. He stumbles towards it. Dives as she runs after. 

The trash chute is mostly just a six story fall, and he lands badly on top of a pile of cement. The ribs on his right took the brunt of the fall, and now most are broken. Slowly he rolls, falling out of the dumpster onto his hands and knees. He can’t run anymore. 

He looks up and right in front of his face is a black motorcycle. He crawls onto it. Mercifully it starts easily. Three approaching agents dive aside as he barrels right through them. 

He flies down the highway, racing up side streets. Around and around, till they have lost him, and he is lost. He keeps going till he is almost out of gas. Rides towards a bunch of abandoned warehouses. Rides right through a flock of pigeons, into the building. Dumps the bike, and crawls into a corner while the wheels are still spinning. He curls into a ball and passes out.

When he wakes, everything is blurry. His whole body is just pain. He’s not sure if he is caught in another nightmare, but he remembers the chase. He is still curled on his side, both arms clamped onto his ribs and stomach like he is holding them into his body by brute force. 

As he blinks the hair from his eyes, the room starts to come into focus. The Widow is there, squatting about a yard away. She is very still, and has her head tilted, watching him. 

He swallows and blinks as she begins to blur. Tries to keep her in focus. He can’t run. It’s her move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr too, come by and visit. It's mostly Captain America with a few of the other Avengers thrown in. http://stickypostbasement.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

Barely able to keep his eyes open, everything keeps blurring out of focus. Bucky wants to let go. Rest for a second, but he’s afraid when he closes his eyes it might be for the last time. He has something he needs to do.

This Widow knows Steve Rogers. He tries to talk, but a wet inhale turns into a deep painful cough. The cough whites out everything, his head drops back to the ground. Lying curled on his side, his cheek scrapes on the cold cement.

He forces himself to stop, still fees the urge to cough, swallows it down. His eyes tear, but the pain subsides enough. He blinks his watering eyes to focus. She hasn’t moved.

“Tell Steve…” he starts to speak, his words are faint. His voice is strange in his own ears. 

“Tell Steve, I’m…” he tries again. Fresh blood runs from his lips, joins the pool next to his mouth. He notices it for the first time. Looks down, and is awed by the volume of blood spread out from his stomach. His hands still clutch at the wound, frozen. Wrapped tight around his middle. He looks up at the Widow, knows he needs to get his words out. “Tell ‘m sorry.”

She doesn’t respond, face unreadable. 

He had been trying to lift his face, used up the last of his strength to get the words out. Sagging, he rests back against the cool cement. The blood pools around his cheek. He doesn’t have the strength to move. All of his energy is being channeled into breathing. Closing his eyes, he begs “Please.” 

Tries to inhale. Feels the blood clogging his lungs, lets another exhale push blood out of his mouth. “Please.” he begs again. Eyes still closed “Tell Steve, ‘m sorry.” He coughs again.

When he comes round she is standing, holding a phone. A helicopter thumps a beat nearby. There are pigeons walking the concrete floor of the warehouse, they peck and coo. A few pigeons are sitting on the motorcycle. There is blood on the tank, more on the seat. The Widow wanders towards a row of windows. Some gape open, the glass a broken row of sharp teeth at the bottom. Most are painted over, light seeps through the thin paint in gray streaks. 

A plump white bird walks towards him. It pecks at the dirt near his legs. The Widow walks back over and shoos it away with the toe of her boot. It doesn’t flutter far. 

Not long after, a team of armed men in black enter the warehouse. The Widow puts her phone away. They are followed by a team with a stretcher. Thick manacles are at the side and foot of the stretcher. 

He has been on this stretcher before, it was made for him. Maybe if he’s lucky it will be the last time.

He closes his eyes. It’s getting harder to breathe. His right hand on his stomach moves to instinctually clutch at his chest. To pull and rip at his shirt in an attempt to get air. 

The armed agents approach, rifles trained on him. One takes the lead, is closer than the others. Bucky braces for a kick. It doesn’t come, instead the agent leaves room, allows the medical team closer. The Widow steps through first. She gets between the medical staff and Bucky, then leans in close. 

She has something hidden in her palm. His heart races and the hand clutching at his chest freezes. Her eyes are bright, focused on him. They lock eyes. Her face is still unreadable. She reaches out and touches him with the object and the world fades away. 

He wakes later lying on his back on an unyielding uncomfortable bed. The bed is little more than a raised platform. It is made of the same thick clear glass as the walls and floor. 

He pulls in a big breath. It feels like seconds ago he was drowning in his own blood. Now, his airways are clear. His ribs ache, and the bullet wounds still throb. He starts to tally his injuries. From experience, he knows they are two days old. Fresh, but treated by medical professionals. Professionals experienced with augmented physiologies. 

He tries to sit up and finds himself in clean sweats with a strange logo on them. Not Hydra. He has new masters now. 

In his first few weeks on the lamb, he would have taken new masters. He craved the order, the ease. Now, he has had a taste of freedom. He doesn’t want to go back to what he was. He won’t go back.

Carefully assessing, he circles the strange clear cell. The cell is a glass ball suspended within a larger metal room. He walks its perimeter looking for flaws. Tests its strength with his fist. Tries to find something to pry the cage open, but he can’t find the seams, or the door. He begins to breathe faster. There is no door. Is this a cryogenic chamber? Is he being warehoused in this? It’s larger than most cells he has been in. 

Instead of being comforted, he’s panicking. Is this his prison? 

He charges the walls again, smashing, punching. Desperate to escape. After fifteen minutes he’s breathing hard. Coughing, he spits blood onto the floor. His lungs are still healing and aren’t ready for this punishment. 

He attacks the walls again, the vents start to emit a pale blue vapor, it’s making him drowsy. He fights harder, pummels one spot, trying to get the cage to crack. Chest heaving, he spits more blood onto the floor. The gas gets thick in the cage. It makes him dizzy, but he won’t go down. He’s breathed worse. It pushes his rage, makes him fight harder. 

Suddenly the gas stops. The air system starts venting the gas. It’s being sucked out, leaving clear air. He worries that they might take the oxygen too. Maybe leave him with nothing to breathe. The walls don’t crack. He circles the room again, looking for an alternative. Some weak spot in the construction. Everything seems uniform, no area thicker, and no area thinner, except the vent. 

The vent in the ceiling is four rings of small round holes. Each hole is no bigger than a the head of a pin. It connects to a clear hose. The ceiling is higher than any normal man could reach. He isn’t a normal man. Crouching low, he leaps at the vent. He’s able to touch it. Punch it midair. But, he has no leverage, no way to stay up there, nothing to cling to.

He leaps four times, gets four good punches in. Hard punches with his metal left hand. Each blow would have dented a steel door. There isn’t even a scratch on the vent. He pants a second and coughs up more blood. Stands assessing, wipes the blood from his lips with the back of his right hand. 

Takes a deep breath, then charges the wall again. He tries to kick one time, and feels every healing rib and gunshot wound. It leaves him gasping. A stain starts to spread on the hip of his sweatpants. He charges the wall again. As he pulls back his fist to punch again, a metal door outside the glass opens. Steve walks in. Bucky freezes. 

“Stop, Buck. Your just hurting yourself.”

Bucky’s arms drop to his sides. 

Steve steps forward. Reaches out his hand and places it on the glass. Steve looks good. Pale but good. His hair is cut strange, too short, and he’s wearing jeans with a pale blue shirt. Bucky steps back. Steve glances down at Bucky’s bare feet. Bucky glances down, sees the drops of blood smeared around on the floor, and on his toes. 

Taking a deep breath, James feels it gurgle and bubble but he ignores it. “What is this?”

“You’re somewhere safe.”

“Safe?”

Steve looks sad. Bucky knows when Steve is sad, and now he looks like his dog died. “I’m working on getting you out. But, you have to stop.” 

The door slides open again. The Widow comes up behind Steve, touches his elbow. He pulls his arm away, he doesn’t look at her. She isn’t wearing the leather like before, she has on a smart gray suit. She looks like she runs a fortune 500 company, instead of the cold assassin she is. Steve nods over his shoulder at her. “Give me a minute.” he asks. She finally looks at James, glances around at the mess he has made of his glass cage, then turns and goes back out the door. It whispers closed behind her. 

“Buck, I know that wasn’t you. I know you didn’t mean to do those things.” Steve has a pleading tone to his voice. 

“Do you?” Bucky asks.

“Hydra made you. You don’t deserve to go to jail. You don’t deserve the things they are saying.” Steve says, his hand still on the glass.

Bucky looks around at the blood on the floor, his clothes, his hands. “I don’t deserve …” he looks up at Steve “I shot you. I could have killed you. Steve I tried to kill you. They don’t even know half of what I’ve done. I have so much blood on my hands. I deserve everything they say. I deserve worse.” Bucky walked back to the bench. He dropped down onto it suddenly, tired. 

Sitting, with his hands loosely resting in his lap. Bucky could smell that the gas was back. This time it was clear. He wasn’t sure if it was stronger, or he was just too tired to fight it this time. He took a shuddering deep breath, and leaned to the side. Sighing, Bucky watched Steve watch him, until slowly his eyes slid closed.


	6. Chapter 6

Blinking awake, Bucky was sore from sleeping twisted on the bunk. He found himself on his side with his feet on the floor, just as he was when he passed out. 

Gingerly, he rolled onto his back and ran his finger over his ribs. They were still tender, that meant he hadn’t slept long. Less than a day. Could be more, but he doubted it. He felt drained, wanted to lie still and rest. Looking up at the vent, he realized the clear gas wasn’t to make him sleep, it was to calm him down. Make him more manageable and docile. He fell asleep when they pumped it into his cell because was exhausted.

He liked the sensation. This drug made him feel loose and boneless. He hadn’t felt this way since he could drink. Usually he couldn’t be drugged, but they were continuously pumping it right into his air, he could smell it. They tried to hide the chemicals with the smell of lavender. They shouldn’t have bothered. 

Time passed slowly. He had nothing to do but lie and stare at the ceiling. He could work out, but the drugs took his motivation. When they slid a tray of food through a hidden hatch, he lacked the energy to even get it, let alone eat it. It smelled good. Chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes, real food. His stomach growled. The food sat until the guard came and collected it, replaced it with the next meal. He started to tell time by the trays they replaced. 

It was lunch the next day when a different guard came to replace the tray. He yanked back the cold uneaten breakfast, and slid lunch in through the movable clear hatch. It was about an inch tall by one foot wide. He stared at it wondering if he could pop the little door open and use his left hand to crack the glass. He might be able to pry a hole. He watched the guard fiddle with the breakfast tray. 

Instead of taking the tray and leaving, the guard seemed to be waiting. He had no real reason to stay, and he kept glancing into the cell. The guard looked up when a popping noise came from the hall. It was followed by a floor shaking boom. Once the guard heard the boom, he unlocked Bucky’s door. A clear door slid away, and the guard stepped in. 

Bucky just stared from his spot on the bed. 

“Get a move on.” The guard yelled, pulling out his sidearm. He had it aimed towards the door to the hall. When Bucky only frowned, he added “Move! You wanna go to the chair?” 

Bucky rolled to his feet. His ribs had mostly healed, and his gunshot wounds were well on their way. As he stepped out of the clear cell, he took a deep breath of untainted air. His head began to clear. He closed his eyes for a second, then snatched the pistol from the guard’s hand.

“Lead the way.” Bucky said.

The guard scowled at Bucky for taking the pistol, but led the way out. They emerged into a hall to find blinking emergency lights and thick black smoke. The guard ran towards the densest smoke. Four more explosions rocked the building in quick succession. The guard donned a gas mask as they turned down into a smoke filled stairwell. He glanced back at Bucky, unconcerned for his ability to breathe in the fog of smoke and the smell of burning building. Burning building smelled much different than a comforting wood fire, it smelled chemical from burning plastic and paint. It burned his nose and eyes, but he could still function.

From within the thickest smoke, four men materialized. The new team was wearing black tactical gear and carrying rifles with silencers. The men fell into place around him, extracting him from the building with the ease of seasoned professionals. When they emerged into the main floor, it was strewn with close to a dozen dead guards. It had been a firefight, and there was blood and overturned furniture everywhere. One side of the room was scorched black. The bodies and furniture mingled into a blackened burned mess. This room had been a battle zone.

The team quickly led him to a waiting helicopter outside. The landing gear hovered barely an inch off the ground, ready to go. Running across the manicured lawn, Bucky saw the man on his right turn and aim his rifle. A lone injured guard had shoved open a side door. He had his pistol up, ready to fire. 

In a flash Bucky shoved the rifleman and fired his pistol. The round hit a flag bracket over the guard’s head. The flagpole with its snapping banner swung down, and the guard tumbled aside. 

By the time the guard had recovered, Bucky’s team was gone. The chopper was well on it’s way before the last of the team was seated.

Glancing around, Bucky didn’t need to see any logos on their uniform to confirm that these men were Hydra. As they began to unmask, he recognized two of them. These were Hydra’s best. He should have been honored.

The chopper flew low, and the team kept their rifles ready. They unmasked in front of him, but that didn’t mean they trusted him. He was lucky they hadn’t shackled him. 

It was just a matter of time until the restraints came out. He had been on the loose for a long time, he was compromised. His loyalties had never really been trusted. Loyalty had been forced upon him. Hydra was confident in their methods, but they knew he was untrustworthy. Piles of reports recorded that his augmented physiology made him unpredictable, liable to go rogue. Conditioning that would be permanent in anyone else, needed to be repeated, regularly and at levels that were usually lethal.

The chopper flew fast and low, barely over the treetops. These were expert pilots, Bucky was impressed by their skill. They followed a path away from towns and cities. 

An hour passed, and they were still over a densely wooded area. Not even a farm, had been passed in over five minutes. Bucky had been slumped his seat, pistol still clutched in his right hand. Suddenly, his left hand snatched out, grabbing the rifle next to him, and firing at the two agents across from him, and the one to his right. The agent whose rifle he grabbed, reacted quickly pulling a knife and embedding it into Bucky’s side, under the metal of his armpit. Bucky backhanded the agent with the rifle still in his grip. The metal fist hit the agent’s skull with a crunching sound. 

The pilots turned, but before they could react they were slumped over the controls bleeding. Bucky yanked a pilot from his seat and took the controls. He raised the elevation of the chopper and checked the cockpit for maps. Pocketing a paper map, he leveled the aircraft, setting it on a course to crash into a rise in the landscape about a half mile away. 

Then, stepping back towards the doorway, he leaned out. The wind pushed him, flapping the sweats. Finally, he jumped. 

The chopper had gone over a small lake. It was no more than an acre wide, maybe less, and probably created by a beaver.

He hoped the water would cushion his fall.

The problem with beaver dams, is that the beavers drag trees from all over. The water isn’t an ideal pool of clean water. It was a twisted mass of limbs and logs. Luckily, the heaviest part of Bucky hit the water where it was deep and clear. He had his arms outstretched to slow his descent into the water. Unluckily, his right arm clipped the branches of a submerged tree and the back of his skull hit the trunk. 

He didn’t lose consciousness, but was stunned by the blow, tangled in the branches. Instinctively, he gasped and got a lungful of water. His loose clothes caught on the limbs, and he had to rip at the fabric to get free. Kicking his legs, he was able to get his face out of the water. He emerged choking and coughing. Reaching out, he swam to the soft muddy edge and hauled himself onto the bank. Nothing was broken, but he had a gash in his right arm. There was a smaller one in his leg. He tore what was left of his shirt off and tried to stop the bleeding from the stab wound in his side. The new wounds would have to heal on their own. He didn’t have enough fabric or time. 

As soon as he tied it off, he stood and began to jog. He pulled out the map, and tried to read it on the move. Before long he was able to get his bearings from the locations of mountain ridges to the west and a row of tall power poles dotting the distant treetops. Power lines to feed a nearby small town. 

He examined the map as he ran. Stumbling over a branch, he wished he could concentrate on where to put his feet, or had a pair of boots. He hadn’t time to take them. When he saw the distant beaver pond along their path, he knew he had to make his move before they passed it, and his opportunity was lost. Eventually, he found a suitable direction on the map, and shoved it into his pants. He could guide himself using the terrain.

As long as he kept moving, he was able to keep warm enough. There was a cool breeze blowing. When it got dark it was going to freeze. He was shirtless in wet sweatpants. He was tempted to sleep now, and run through the night. If he was going to survive, he might need to run through the day and night. He wanted to be in Florida. He was supposed to be in Florida, on a sunny beach digging his bare feet into the sand. 

Instead he was…Where was he? He had the urge to pull out the map again. He hadn’t even bothered to read what state he was in. It was an hour by air from the glass cage, but he didn’t know where the cage was. Steve was going to be pissed. 

Bucky had been running for less than ten minutes when he saw a shadow overhead. Something had blocked out the sun for a second. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and Bucky paused under a tree. He looked up, searching the sky, trying to remain unseen. Hoping his eyes were playing tricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr too, come by and visit. It's mostly Captain America with a few of the other Avengers thrown in. http://stickypostbasement.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

Still searching the sky, Bucky squat down and felt for a smooth rock. He found one the size of a softball. It was a little larger than he wanted, but with his powerful left arm it would be deadly. 

Back against a tree, he froze in place staring up. Watched for the man as he flew a search pattern. Bucky needed to wait till the target flew closer. He might be able to make a significant blow from this distance, but he didn’t want to risk it. He had one rock, if he was quick and lucky he might be able to throw two. The guy in the air was sporting state of the art wings. That meant he also had state of the art weapons. If Bucky didn’t take him down on the first throw, he doubted he would ever make that second throw.

Sam Wilson had been on enough news shows and magazine covers that Bucky knew things about him. For example, Sam was usually with Steve. Steve couldn’t fly, but that didn’t mean he would be far behind. Steve wouldn’t leave anyone to fight the Winter Soldier alone. 

With each pass overhead, Wilson came lower. Sam Wilson was searching, circling. He had lost sight of his prey. Bucky could be patient. 

There was a pattern. A dark shadow would move across the forest floor, then two seconds later, Wilson came into Bucky’s line of sight. He would be a viable target for less than a second. Bucky needed to be quick. The last pass almost gave his location away. This next pass he would take his shot.

As time dragged on, the shadow didn’t come. Bucky held his breath. The pattern must have changed, throwing off his shot. Frozen in place while searching the sky, Bucky’s heart beat faster. No shadow, no Wilson, nothing. Suddenly, his head jerked around, searching the woods. He had been focused on the sky. What if he landed? Bucky was a sitting duck. 

He forced himself to wait. If Wilson was still in the air, a panicked run would give him away. 

A twig snapped behind him, and he spun. His body acted on autopilot, and the rock was out of his hand before he even really looked. Wilson had his hands in the air, empty palms out, a gesture of peace. One second Wilson was there, the next second the rock hit him with a loud crack, and he was gone. Face down in the fallen leaves. 

Wilson hit the ground in a tumble of limbs, and Bucky instantly turned to run. He made it two steps, before he glanced back at the unmoving man behind him. Bucky stopped and froze. His mind replayed the last couple of seconds. Wilson had his hands up, and Bucky just killed him. Maybe he did belong in jail. He was a danger to everyone. A killer. 

Slowly, carefully, Bucky went back. His heart was pounding and his hand shook. He was afraid that Wilson was dead.

As he approached, Wilson moaned and rolled onto his back. He had a leaf stuck to the side of his face, and blinked up at Bucky. Biting his lip, Bucky just stared back at him, then slowly raised his hands in front of him, showing his open palms. Wilson sat up, and looked down at the front of his uniform. The body armor had saved him. Bucky closed his eyes in relief. 

“Jesus. How are you walking?” Wilson asked.

Bucky blinked his eyes open at the question. “What?” 

He wondered if Wilson had hit his head.

Wilson scowled at him “Is anything broken?” he asked, “Because, Man… You are a mess.” 

Looking down, Bucky saw that the cut in his leg had left a large red streak from his thigh down his pant leg. The waistband of the pants was soaked with blood from his stab wound, which also left a bloody smear covering his whole left side. His pants were covered in mud from just above the knee down to his caked bare feet. He didn’t remember getting this dirty. 

Quietly Bucky said “I’m…I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks.” 

Getting to his feet, Wilson brushed the leaves from his uniform “Okay? Because it looks pretty bad.” 

Bucky didn’t get any closer, and Wilson didn’t move to get closer either. 

After staring for a minute, Wilson continued, “I gotta ask. Are we on the same side? Or, is this going to be a fight?” he also had his hands in front of him palms open. 

Wilson was armed, and armored. Wilson was also smart, he kept his distance from Bucky. Didn’t want Bucky to take his weapons, and was watching. The sweat pants didn’t have anywhere to hide another rock, but Wilson knew that Bucky didn’t need a weapon to be deadly. Bucky was a weapon.

A cold wind kicked up. Bucky took a deep breath, “I don’t think I have a side. I just don’t...” he paused, thought about his words “I don’t want to go back to Hydra.”

“Okay.” Wilson smiled “That is a very good start.” He took a step back and looked up at the sky. “I think we can work with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone still thought #7 was going to be the last chapter, when I edited the story, I divided the chapters differently than the original draft. We still have a few more to go. Sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

Crashing through an autumn hued tree canopy, Bucky fell like a stone. He desperately tried to right himself, but his landing was all wrong. Hitting the sloped rocky ground, he tumbled over thirty feet before a tree abruptly stopped his momentum. More ribs were probably broken. He couldn’t be sure because everything hurt, and the world was spinning. Small rocks rolled down pelting him on the side for a while after he had stopped. He lay on his back spread eagle when Sam gently landed nearby.

“Man, I told you the harness wouldn’t support your weight. Your rock busted the latch. If I hadn’t dropped you, we would have both gone down. I’m not juiced up on the serum like you are.” Sam cautiously stayed a few feet away. When Bucky didn’t move, Sam worriedly stepped forward to get a closer look. “Please, tell me you have super serum too, and I didn’t just kill you.”

Without opening his eyes, Bucky moaned “Just give me a minute, I’m trying not to hurl.” 

Sam smiled “Where’d you learn the word hurl?”

Bucky cracked his eyes open a slit “I’ve seen TV. Why wouldn’t I know the word hurl?”

“I can’t imagine Cap using the word hurl.” Sam pondered.

Closing his eyes Bucky rolled onto his side, pushing himself up with his hands. “Steve uses a lot of words that shock people. And, I’m not Steve in case you didn’t notice.”

“Yeah, but you’re ‘Greatest Generation’ too. You guys talk a lot alike.” 

Standing, Bucky leaned against a tree, dusted himself off, then pushed his hair behind his ears.

Sam looked him over “Nothing broken?” he asked. He had a strange expression, Bucky couldn’t read it.

Bucky looked at him skeptically “No.” he asked, then tilting his head added “Why? Did you want something to be broken?”

“You just fell sixty feet then tumbled for another thirty.” Sam smiled awkwardly, “Plus, you have a bruise on your ribs that is turning all kinds of colors. I’d say you have some broken ribs to go with the bruise.”

Bucky looked surprised, and lifted his right arm to look at the bruise. “Hmm, matched set.” Bucky smiled, pointing to the knife wound on the other side. 

Sam frowned. “You have one strange sense of humor.”

“We’re lucky I didn’t hit the tree on my left. I’d be down for a while if I took that blow on a knife wound.” Bucky said peeling up the bandage, checking to make sure the cut hadn’t reopened. Biting his lip and glancing up, he asked “You didn’t drop me on purpose, did you?” 

Sam gave a sly smile. “I do kinda owe you for throwing me off a Hellicarrier. But, since I actually told you out loud, multiple times, that you broke the harness with your rock, and you weigh a ton. Then, you insisted we fly anyways. This is completely on you.”

Nodding, Bucky said “Okay, I guess it’s my own fault.” He smiled “Does this make us even?”

“No. It does not.” Sam shrugged, “This was entirely your fault, you definitely still owe me.”

Bucky frowned “Oh.”

Sam smirked. “It’s okay man. We’re cool, as long as you don’t try to kill me again. Like ever.”

They spent the next few hours walking the forest. Occasionally, Sam would fly up and scout out the area, make sure they were heading the right way. Sam was also keeping an eye out for Hydra. Sam. Bucky could call him Sam. That was one of the first things he told Bucky. 

Bucky didn’t know what to say back. Obviously, Sam knew Bucky’s name. He might know more about James Buchanan Barnes than Bucky did. He wouldn’t bet any money on who knew more.

As they walk, Sam fills up the space. He tells Bucky that Steve was busy in Canada saving the world while Bucky was locked in the glass cage. Steve didn’t know that Bucky had been found till after the mission, then he actually bent a rifle in half, he was so mad. Sam told him it was Stark’s decision to put him in the cage, in case Bucky was dangerous. 

After that, the Avengers needed to save the world again, and Bucky was put on a back burner. Steve was mad, but off saving the world anyways. Bucky could tell Steve was still mad at Black Widow. He saw the way Steve pulled his arm away from her touch. Steve could hold a grudge. 

The conversation washed around him. Sam seemed content to talk without Bucky needing to add anything. Sam told Bucky about the mission they finished in Canada and how they found a Hydra base they thought would be huge, but it turned out to just have a Hydra gizmo that made a domed shield that could cover at least two miles. Hydra had been trying to hide the machine, and Stark thinks he can re-engineer it to defend the planet incase we are attacked by aliens again. They found out a guy named Dr. Doom had an infinity stone that Hydra was going to use to power the shield.

Steve was on the mission to get the infinity stone. That’s why he wasn’t there when the Hydra assault team came and took Bucky. Supposedly, a stone like that in the wrong hands could be a powerful weapon on its own. Sam laughed that the guy who has the stone is named Dr. Doom. 

Bucky didn’t remember stopping, or how he ended up on his knees. When he finally focused on the world around himself he was in the cool leaves. His hands were on the ground the right one had black dirt under the nails. A tiny beetle was walking over the fingers of his left hand, sliding on the metal. He blinked a few times, looking down into the leaves in front of him, trying to get his bearings. 

Someone cleared their throat. Sam. Sam was a few yards in front of him sitting cross-legged next to a pine tree. “Do you know who I am?” Sam asked.

Bucky took a breath, and it came out louder than he expected. “Doomsday.” 

Sam’s eyebrows went up, but he stayed relatively calm.

Bucky tried again. “They can’t turn the machine on. Do they have the stone now?” he tried to remember where Sam left off. He desperately asked “Do they have the stone?” 

Putting his hands out to calm Bucky, Sam said “Yeah, Stark got it this morning. It’s cool man. He’s a super genius, it’ll be okay.”

“Jesus. You have to fly out there, now. Get them on commo. Tell somebody. Tell them not to put the gem near the machine.” Bucky looked frantic.

Firmly, Sam said “Steve does not want me to leave you here”

“Fuck Steve. The machine is a doomsday machine. Not a just a shield. If Project Insight failed, they were going to start Project New Eden. The shield protects Hydra’s chosen ones. Everything outside the shield is gonna be destroyed. They’re gonna kill everyone.”

Sam stood “Okay. We are only three miles west of a town called Frost.” He examined the gear he was wearing, quickly performing pre-flight checks. “You head there, and call in. Okay?” He handed Bucky an Avengers business card. “Watch out for Hydra.” he yelled as he lifted off. Bucky could still hear him when he yelled from the sky “Call in, or Steve will kill me.” 

Bucky watched him till he disappeared. Then turned east and ran.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky gave Sam the tools to save the world. Keep the dangerous magic gem away from the deadly Hydra machine. It should be simple. 

It was never simple when a man like Stark was involved. He always thought he knew what was best for everyone. It was how he created the whole Ultron fiasco in the first place. The news showed the Sokovia disaster endlessly, from every angle, for weeks afterward. The whole world was almost wiped out. Stark should never have access to the stone. 

Bucky had the overwhelming urge to try to steal it. Hide it away. But where? He could barely hide himself. He was filthy, shirtless, barefoot, unshaven, and in mud-caked bloodstained sweatpants. Anyone passing by would think he was a lunatic, or mass murderer. 

Naively, Sam wanted Bucky to go into a little town called Frost. After Sam flew away, Bucky knew he couldn’t just waltz into Frost. Not looking like he did. The cops would take one look at him and try to take him straight to lockup. He didn’t have the energy to get in a fight with the police. 

After jogging less than a mile, he came across a paved road. Staying within the tree line, he followed it from a distance. Soon, he came upon a farmhouse. It turned out to be foreclosed, abandoned, and cleaned out. Not a stitch of clothing to be found. Not even curtains on the windows. 

He sat on the kitchen floor and unwrapped the stab wound on his side. It had finally closed, even with his rough treatment. He wadded up the bandages and ditched them at the back of one of the cabinets. 

The cut on his arm had also closed, becoming an angry scab inside a purple bruise. The gash on his leg on the other hand, didn’t look that great. It was red and puffy. Prodding the hot skin hurt like hell. He had been running using the leg, but that wasn’t why it hurt. He had experience with this type of wound before. The wound had tried to close, but he had something still inside. His body healed around the debris, but the debris irritated the injury. Infection was suppressed, but still possible. 

Using his right hand, he poked around the outside of the wound till he felt something. Beads of sweat stood out on his top lip. Once he zeroed in on the source of the pain, he pushed the skin around the scab, soon he saw the top of a thick sliver of wood. He slid it out and threw it onto the floor. His heart was beating fast, and he massaged the leg muscle around the wound. He stretched the leg, and knew it felt better immediately. He should have known that was in there, but it was out now. 

Giving the leg a few minutes to recover, he stood and walked the house again. Once he was confident he could run if he had to, he headed out again. 

At the edge of the farm there was a deep ditch with a trickle of moving water. Sliding down the grassy embankment, he squat next to the water where it pooled deepest. The widest part was barely a foot across, and it never ran deeper than two inches, but it looked clean and clear. 

The water was freezing when he splashed it onto his arm, immediately making him shiver. He kept going, washing the blood from his side, knowing prolonging it would only make it worse. Finally, when the caked blood was gone, and he was down to red shivering skin, he checked himself over. The pants were still stained. He couldn’t fix that, and didn’t want to have to endure wet pants. A wet waistband was bad enough. Satisfied that it was the best he could do, he scrambled out of the ditch. Staying in the tree line, he broke into a fast run, trying to warm up his muscles by working them. 

After a few miles, the sound of a tractor could be heard in the distance. As he approached the farmhouse, he kept an eye out for danger. When he could finally got a good look, he saw three big dogs on the porch. Dogs were a problem he wanted to avoid.

Turning back into the woods, he jogged till he got to the next place. It was a small family farm, and the farmer was outside pulling apart an old pickup truck. Stealthily, he approached the farmhouse. Peering in a window, he spotted a woman in the den typing on a computer. She had a cat in her lap, and soft guitar music playing on the radio. He moved to the next window. It looked into the kitchen. Carefully, he slid the screen and window up, then slipped into the house. 

Silently, he crept into the upstairs bedroom, and pulled some plain clothes from a battered dresser. He went through two closets before he found a pair of old boots. They were much too big. He went back and grabbed a second pair of socks. It would work. He slipped the boots and clothes under his arm and opened the window, easily jumping from the second floor. 

Once he was back in the woods, he changed into the worn jeans, t-shirt, and maroon long sleeve Henley. The clothes were a little baggy, but close enough. The boots slid around even with the two pair of socks. Trying to tighten the laces he gave a hard tug. The lace snapped off in his hand. Knotting it back together, he tightened the boot as much as it would go. In the end, it didn’t matter. Blisters would heal. He needed to keep moving. 

Now that his leg was healing, and he had shoes on his feet, he was able to increase his pace significantly. He tore through the countryside. The sun was approaching the horizon, and the clouds had begun to gather again. Coming up to a clearing, he looked over the rise and saw a small town. It might be Frost, but he had changed course enough to think that he should be at least a couple miles south of Frost. 

From this vantage point, he could make out some of the town’s layout. Old railroad tracks ran near a row of big brick buildings. Empty factories and warehouses sat nearest the tracks. He might be able to hop on a train as one went past. He could be miles from here soon. Trains had been something he tried to avoid, but he wouldn’t let that stop him.

After scouting the area, he started towards the closest building, staying alert to possible watching eyes. An empty warehouse with graffiti on its red brick walls was closest, and he slipped inside. The building was quiet, and his tired heavy boot steps echoed as he climbed up metal stairs. Taking a seat at the top of the stairs, he leaned his arm on the railing and stared out into the empty warehouse. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

A familiar soothing scent was in the air. Vaulting over the railing, he leapt down to the ground floor. Running, before could even prove the Widow was there. 

Sprinting over to the next building and up the stairs, he tried to hide. The shuttered factory still contained its abandoned machinery. Old rusting hulks of metal sat covered in dust. He tried to blend in with the shadows. Creeping along, trying to stay low and hidden, he needed an exit plan. 

Stopping and listening, he sat on the floor with his back against a press. He didn’t hear anything but his own breathing for a few minutes. Slowly, he started to rise. A train rumbled in the distance. If he timed it right, he could slip onto it. 

When he didn’t hear anything from inside the warehouse, he began to doubt himself. Maybe it was his imagination playing tricks. What did a Widow smell like anyways? How would he know?

Cautiously, he turned to peer around the machine. His head snapped back with a thump. He tumbled backwards into a press. She kicked him again, a sharp blow to his left forearm. He heard a sickening crunch. The machine had snapped it’s jaws closed. His arm was trapped tight in it’s grip. This was an industrial machine meant to bend metal with ease. His arm wasn’t normal metal, but that didn’t mean the machine couldn’t do damage. 

When the machine snapped down, Bucky instinctively let out a loud yell. Immediately, he began clawing at it to get the arm out. He was stuck, trapped, and it felt like the heavy press was bearing down, about to crush the metal. He knew from past experience, that even the slightest change to the shape of the arm was excruciating.

He tried to find the controls, but the power to the building was off. Hydraulic fluid was pouring onto the ground, running from a cut hose. She had drained the machine, he couldn’t raise it. When she released the latch, gravity pulled the heavy press closed. In his panic, he shoved at the press, trying to push the mechanism back up. Even with his enhanced strength he couldn’t get loose. 

He scanned the ground, searching for a lever, a piece of metal, anything he could use to wedge into the machine to get his arm free. As he searched he finally saw her. She was leaning in a doorway behind him. He had to twist awkwardly to even catch a glimpse. 

Casually she said “Stark thinks you belong in prison.” Pushing away from the doorframe she walked around him. When she was in front of him, she stopped. Looked him up and down. “Steve thinks you’re a martyr.” She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. “Sam showed up with intel that says Tony is trying to start up a doomsday bomb and blow up the world. He said you told him not to let the gem near the shield. You said the shield is a bomb.” She waited.

He stared at her. When he spoke his voice sounded winded. “We’re still here, they must have believed me.”

Squinting she said “Steve believes you. Tony doesn’t, that’s why Steve is a little delayed. That, and the fact that he’ll be looking in the wrong town.”

He looked up at her, not answering.

She shrugged. “Now they’ll know where to find you.” She walked back out, leaving through the doorway behind him, as he twisted to watch her. There was a thump in the other room, then she slid something into the doorway. It took him a moment to realize it was an old crate. Her scent faded as she left the building. 

Reexamining the arm, he tried to pry it out of the press using his fingers. Nothing was moving. His back was starting to hurt from the bent position. Eventually, he went to his knees to relieve the strain. Leaning against the machine put strain on his shoulder. Leaning away, twisted the muscles of his back. There was no position that worked. Frustrated he punched the machine, and was left with bloodied sore knuckles.

Looking over his back, he saw the crate. He couldn’t hope to reach it with his arm, and stretched out his leg. At first, he kicked it further away. Taking a second to think, he angled his leg to hook the side of the empty crate and drag it closer. He was in a full sweat by the time he was able to sit. His shoulder was throbbing from twisting to get the crate. It was worth it. The change from sore knees and awkward crouching, to awkward sitting provided significant relief. He let out an exhausted sigh. The arm was still twisted uncomfortably, but sitting was infinitely better than kneeling or crouching.

After yanking a board from the crate, he pried loose a nail, then set to work at trying to open the plate under his arm. If he couldn’t lift the top of the press, maybe he could go under, or at least loosen it enough to yank the limb out. After painstakingly backing one of the screws out, he dropped his nail. Scrambling to grab it, he was too late, and it rolled just out of reach. Using his fingers he loosened the rusted screw. It left his finger tips sore. As he pulled the screw free, it slipped from his hand, dropping into the machine. Each click and roll was loud in the silent room as the screw tumbled down inside the machine. 

Switching to another nail, he removed the rest of the four screws holding the plate on. When he was done, his fingernails were ragged, and his back ached from the twist. Carefully, he removed the plate that sat under his hand. It was right in front of the heavy jaws of the press. Looking inside, was a fat rubber belt that turned the motor. It was cracked with dry rot, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t move the press itself, or give him access to getting himself loose. He put his forehead in his hand and tried to think. He had run out of options.

His arm was still trapped tight and he could feel the temperature drop as the sun began to set. The awkward twist of his arm and shoulders had gone through stages. The transition from aching and inconvenient, to throbbing pain happened faster than he would have thought. Once he was in pain, time slowed to a crawl. All he could focus on was getting out. He was starting to get panicky again. The longer he waited, the more Bucky was afraid that the Widow hadn’t told Steve where he was. Why should she? Bucky had shot her on Odessa, killed the man she was protecting, then later in D.C. he shot her again and killed dozens more. She didn’t owe him any favors. 

As the room became dark, he remembered years ago when he had known a Widow. She had smelled the same. She was punished for knowing the Winter Soldier. No Widow owes him any favors, but he’s sure he owes more than one Widow.

He was exhausted and numb by the time dawn gradually lightened the room. His breath had been puffing from him in billowing clouds, but thankfully as the sun rose, so did the temperature. It brought the sound of chirping birds, but no Steve. During the night, he had begun a steady shiver that he could feel in his bones. It might have been from the cold, but he wasn’t sure. His head sagged, he could barely keep it up for more than a few seconds. Finally, as the morning dragged on, he heard a noise and Sam came through the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr too, come by and visit. It's mostly Captain America with a few of the other Avengers thrown in. http://stickypostbasement.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

Cold and exhausted from being trapped all night, Bucky sighed. His shivering had eased as the sun came up, and he dropped his head into his hand, drifting. A faint shuffle brought him out of his own thoughts. When he looked up and saw Sam, instinctively he yanked his metal arm. 

Sam paused in the doorway, “A friend said you were here, waiting for us.” he frowned. “I guess it wasn’t entirely voluntary.”

Behind Sam a shadow shifted. Steve stepped forward, neither he nor Sam were smiling. Steve was afraid of Bucky. Afraid of who he might or might not be. Bucky could see it on his face plain as day. They arrived in shirts and jeans, no uniforms, no body armor. Bucky swallowed, he didn’t know what that meant. His nerves were warring with his need to tug at the arm. Pull and pull, until it came free, or came off. Either way, he needed to get out. 

Steve and Bucky locked eyes for a second. Bucky broke first, glancing down at his stolen boots. Moving his leg, he tried to shift and ease the strain on his trapped arm. He couldn’t look Steve in the eyes. Steve on the other hand, stared openly. Bucky’s eyes flicked back to Steve for a second, then squinted. The thought “Take a picture, it’ll last longer” came to mind, but he wouldn’t dare say it. There was a time when words came easier, but he was changed. Bucky didn’t think Steve could ever understand how much he had changed.

Steve stepped closer into the room. His voice was soft. “Buck, do you remember me?” 

Bucky raised his head, looked Steve in the eyes. The need to prove himself bubbled to the surface. To show that he remembered more than just how to be a fist of Hydra. He tried to smile, it didn’t come naturally any more. “Your Mom’s name was Sarah, and you used to wear newspapers in your shoes.” 

Steve gave a tentative smile. Quietly, Sam stepped up behind Steve. They turned away, were talking about getting Bucky out, who to contact. Talking about him. Not to him. He tuned them out. Hydra used to talk about him a lot, he was used to it. He went back to looking at his shoes, a flare of anger made his chest hurt and his fists clench. He yanked the metal arm again, he should be able to get it free, the arm is strong, it’s just the flesh that is weak. 

“Buck” Steve startled him. Bucky looked up and Sam was gone again. Steve had moved further into the room without Bucky realizing. Quietly, Steve said “A lot of people are looking for you. People died when you busted out of Stark’s facility. They say you’re dangerous.”

Bucky looked down again. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask for that.”

“Sam said it was Hydra. NATO facilities have been attacked a dozen times this past month. All attributed to Hydra. You weren’t involved with any of them, were you?” Steve’s voice was still quiet, but firm. His Captain America voice was creeping in. 

Bucky hated when the Captain America voice was turned on him. It made him squirm, “I don’t do that any more.” He answered and glanced up under his hair. Bucky tried to meet Steve’s stare, but ended up focusing on his shoes, his trapped arm, anywhere but Steve’s disappointed face. 

Steve hadn’t looked away, he wore a strange expression. “Well the people who think you did are coming right now, and they’re not planning on taking you alive.” 

That’s it. Bucky realized Steve was here to keep him trapped. To wait for the authorities. Help them put him down, like a rabid dog. Steve didn’t want him to hurt anyone else. Bucky sagged, everything became blurry and indistinct. He might have fallen from the crate, but the trapped arm kept him in place. Held him up. 

Distantly, he heard Steve and Sam talking. Realized the thing holding him in place was Steve. Strong arms were holding him up, while Sam did something to the machine. The machine shifted, bearing down. Bucky screamed and tried to pull the arm out, pushed Steve away with his right hand. Steve slid backward on the cement floor, but came right back. Steve was still talking, they were pulling and pulling, then suddenly they weren’t.

Sam had stepped back, giving Bucky space to breathe. Steve was still holding him up, but he was mumbling something. It took Bucky a minute to focus. He was leaning into Steve’s shoulder, could smell his aftershave. He heard a voice. Realized he had been begging. His eyes widened as he sat there panting, blindly looking at the dirt smudge on the collar of Steve’s shirt. Keeping his eyes focused on the spot, he tried to think. He had been saying “Stop” over and over in Russian. Begging like he was weak. Like he was a child. The Winter Soldier never begged. Hydra’s best asset took punishment like a man. He had been stronger when he was with Hydra.

Steve was repeating a steady stream of calming words “Easy Buck. We stopped. Easy. We were trying to get you free.” and he was rubbing Bucky. Hands on his shoulder, holding him up, rubbing and trying to soothe.

Roaring, Bucky shoved Steve back. Steve fell sprawling, and Sam came back into the room, a startled look on his face as he held his phone up to his ear. Bucky started to pull and yank. To kick at the heavy machine trapping his arm, twisting the arm and shoulder till the area where flesh met metal was bleeding. Steve and Sam piled on, holding, grappling. Trying to calm him, as he wildly punched and kicked. Sam was caught in the shin. A lucky angle saving him from a broken leg. Steve caught a head butt to the nose, and it bled. Bright red drops splattered the cement, dropped onto Bucky’s jeans.

Bucky’s head jerked up. His eyes snapped to Steve’s face, to Steve’s blood as it dripped from his nose. The blood smeared up his cheek all the way to the ear. Instantly, Bucky was retching. Steve was still there holding him up. 

“Stop.” Bucky moaned. “Stop helping me.” he panted, before being hit by another wave. There was nothing to come up. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Maybe they fed him in the cell before he woke. Hydra used to do that. Make sure he was in perfect shape. Armored, strong, fueled on a nutrient rich diet. They made him a perfectly honed weapon, a deadly fighting machine. 

His thoughts floated back to the sandwich at the bus station. It felt like a lifetime ago. He wondered how the woman’s visit with her mom went. He wondered if his mom though of him as the years passed. Had she missed him? He missed her. Is this the pain Steve felt when his mom died? He sucked in a shaky breath and realized Steve was holding him again. Rubbing his back. Soothing him with calm, soft words. Bucky gently pushed Steve back. 

Using the back of his hand, he wiped the snot from his nose and rubbed at his eyes. He looked over at Steve, who was frozen in place, hand out, ready to catch Bucky. 

Sam was on his phone again. He limped as he paced. “He’ll be here in ten.” Sam said while sliding the phone into his pocket.

Steve frowned “Do we have ten?”


	11. Chapter 11

Steve knew someone was coming. Bucky could see it in the way his eyes kept darting to the doors and windows. He was tense, ready for a fight. Steve tried to make Bucky comfortable while they waited, but that was a lost cause. Bucky was tired and sore, he just wanted a good night’s sleep. Sleep had been impossible with his arm trapped in this machine. From the looks of things, he wasn’t going to get any rest after he was free either.

Sam had gone up to the roof to keep an eye on things. Before long, he called Steve that his guy was here. Steve hurried out to the hall to meet them.

The guy hit the top of the stairs, and immediately began to fawn all over ‘Captain America’. They had paused out of Bucky’s line of sight. Bucky watched their shadows as they moved around. Sam’s guy used the word “Awesome” a couple of times, Steve then said something, probably shook the guy’s hand. It made Bucky uncomfortable hearing someone star struck by ‘Captain America’. The muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched. Sam’s stupid guy should be fawning over Steve, but whatever. It wasn’t his problem.

If Bucky was honest with himself, he was still leery of Steve, and all of the mental baggage he brought with him. When Bucky looked into Steve’s eyes, he saw a lot of expectations there. The guy looked so hopeful, it made Bucky’s stomach hurt. 

Steve and the new guy came into the room where Bucky was stuck, and they both stared at the machine. Steve introduced the new guy as Scott Lang, then Scott came right up into Bucky’s space, leaning over and touching his arm. Bucky leaned away, but he couldn’t go far with his arm stuck.

Steve crouched down next to Bucky, “Hey Buck, Scott is gonna shrink down really small, and figure out why the machine is jammed up. Okay?”

Bucky nodded frowning, annoyed at Steve’s tone. 

Scott stepped back and said “Well, here goes.” then disappeared. 

Jerking in surprise, Bucky spotted Scott leaping up onto the machine. Bucky blurted out “What the hell?” then twisted, watching as Scott disappeared between two panels. 

Steve smiled “I said he was going to get small.” 

Bucky scowled at Steve.

From deep inside, Scott’s muffled voice yelled “This thing is a mess. Man, there’s a lot of rust in here…”

Steve cut in “Remember Scott, time is not on our side.”

“Neither is this press.” Scott mumbled. Then louder, he said “The rust is part of the issue. The internal structure has degraded to the point that some of the metal has crumbled. A thin cotter pin broke free, and has slipped between the plates of Bucky’s arm. He’s pinned in place. It’s like the hammer top part is nailed to his arm. That’s why you can’t raise the press.”

Jumping in, Steve blurted out “Can you cut it?”

“I’m trying to pull the pin up and out. It’s better than leaving…” 

“Just hurry. We don’t have a lot of time.” Steve cut in again.

Steve got a text from Sam, “everything is still clear.” Steve relayed.

It took Scott another minute or so, and Bucky could feel a faint tingling inside his arm. There was clinking from within the machine, then something made a metallic ping. 

Scott yelled to Steve “Try it now.” 

Steve sprung up, rubbed his hands together, then wrapped them around the upper arm of the press. He gave a good yank and it easily lifted, startling Steve, who bent the metal when it snapped to the top. Bucky snatched his arm out. Steve let go of the machine, which fell with a loud bang.

Freed, Bucky stood and rubbed at the flesh around his shoulder. He paced and stretched his back, and neck. 

Steve ushered Scott out with a quick “Thanks, we owe you.” then Scott was gone. When Bucky turned around, he wasn’t sure if Scott shrunk again, or was just really fast. 

Bucky was scratching at rusty metal wedged between the plates of his arm when Sam yelled “Incoming!” from a floor above. Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm and tried to get him towards the roof. 

A loud thump was followed by the rushing boots of an assault team breaching the outer doors. Before Bucky and Steve even reached the doorway, an explosion punched through the wall in front of them. Steve blew backwards to land under a pile of bricks, and Bucky lay sprawled on his back. 

Shaking his head to clear it, Bucky looked around then scrambled towards Steve. Throwing bricks and chunks of cinderblocks, Bucky pawed through the rubble. A limp pale arm, and most of Steve’s leg were visible in the midst of the debris. Just as Bucky cleared the debris from Steve’s face, the assault team rushed the room. 

Bucky turned, stood, and faced them. Shielded Steve with his own body. They fired at Bucky. Close and accurate, most bullets hit his chest, he only deflected three with his metal arm. He could feel them punch through him. They had anticipated that he would be wearing body armor. Armor piercing rounds wouldn’t stop him, the hard sharp tipped rounds went right through. Hydra made the perfect weapon, and it was James Buchanan Barnes. He rushed the team and smacked them around like they were children, leaving them all unconscious.

Bucky was dripping blood when he scrambled towards Steve. His hands left bloody prints in the dust. He was shoving aside a last cinderblock when a second assault team breached the room. Bucky was hit with enough juice to stop a rhino. He screamed and writhed on the floor, still trying to crawl towards Steve. They hit him again, and he couldn’t do more than choke and convulse. He lost a few minutes, waking as they were dragging him up the stairs towards the roof. His boots thumped against each step, his shins were taking a beating. He couldn’t get enough air, one lung was filling with blood. He was gasping as they came out onto the roof. 

A black helicopter waited, thumping and shuddering. Grabbing Bucky by the ankles and shoulders they shoved him onboard. He slid across the floor on his chest, leaving a bloody smear. When he tried to roll, he realized his hands were bound behind his back.

Rough hands grabbed his pant leg and folded him into the back of the helicopter. His legs were bound together, someone grabbed his ankles and hooked his legs to his wrists. The twisted angle put strain on every muscle, he could feel every gunshot wound screaming at him. The world was getting dark around the edges. Blood dripped and seeped, forming slick pools on the floor of the helicopter. He could barely focus on the boots around him, inches from his face. 

The chopper shuddered as the door closed, then it lifted and swung away. There was a sudden lurch, the helicopter jerked back as if they caught the strut on something. He could hear the engine strain as they tried to pull away. The boots around him shifted, men getting out of their seats. One man lifted his weapon to fire out of the helicopter. He fell onto Bucky’s back after Bucky heard a well placed shot. A few more shots took out the other assault team members. They fell in crumpled heaps around him. One, partially on top of the other. 

Their combined weight trapped Bucky there. Made it harder to breathe. Dead weight lie across Bucky’s back and twisted arms, it pulled painfully at his shoulders, made it impossible to get a full breath. A black canvas jacket lie pressed to Bucky’s face, he couldn’t shift his head and get any space. The world started to fade again. Graying out, as his brain didn’t get enough oxygen. The chopper lurched again, and jerked. The door yanked open. Sam jumped onboard with a thump. He climbed over the bodies, yanking men off of Bucky. He jerked Bucky, unlocking his legs, then hauling him to his feet. 

Bucky swayed from both blood loss and the rocking of the helicopter. Sam was unlocking his arms. Bucky looked out the door and there was Steve, hanging from a strut. Not hanging, holding on. Bucky couldn’t make sense of it. Sam pushed him towards the doorway and pointed. He yelled “Jump to the roof.” and Bucky sprung away. Skidding onto the roof, he immediately scrambled back to reach Steve. Sam jumped out landing barely a few inches from Bucky’s ear, as he reached and stretched towards Steve. Steve let go of the helicopter, and the sudden release made the pilot lose control, sending the chopper crashing to the pavement below.

Steve dangled, and Bucky hauled him up. Once they were both on the roof, Sam hauled them both along. Before long, Steve and Sam were hauling Bucky as his feet stumbled along, never really holding his own weight. A couple of times, Sam stopped and fired, while Steve kept Bucky moving.

After they got to the ground, Scott was sitting in a van with the door open. Another buddy was inside the door, reaching out, ready to help them haul Bucky inside. Once inside the van sped away. Steve gently eased Bucky onto the floor of the van. Bucky stared at Steve while he and Sam tried to staunch the bleeding. Closing his eyes, Bucky passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr too, come by and visit. It's mostly Captain America with a few of the other Avengers thrown in. http://stickypostbasement.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

The room was bright, he woke blinking and squinting. Everything ached. His eyes gradually focused on the big window next to the bed. Puffy white clouds dotted pale blue skies. Soft pale blue sheets covered him, he ran a finger over them. They felt nice. The bedspread was covered in tiny blue flowers. This wasn’t a hospital bed. Steve sat slumped in a big plush chair, pulled close to Bucky’s side. He was staring at his hands, with red rimmed eyes. When he realized Bucky was awake, he sat forward and broke into a wide grin, ‘Hey Buck, you had me worried.”

Bucky tried to respond, but only had the strength for a “Hmmm.” 

Steve touched his arm, leaned over him, “Don’t try to talk. You had a few holes in your lungs, but it looks like you’re healing up quick.” 

Exhausted, Bucky closed his eyes again, drifting. 

Holes in his lungs…Bucky had seen more than a few people choke on their own blood during battle. A gunshot to the lungs was a death sentence during the war. That was before modern medicine, or souped-up serums. Now, he had survived gunshot wounds to the lungs twice this month alone.

Steve still had a bruise on his chin from the explosion, so Bucky knew he hadn’t been out that long. Probably less than a few days. Most of Bucky’s wounds were clean shots, through muscle. They itched, and hurt when he moved. He had been hit with more than one round that would have killed a normal man. They would keep him down for a few days at least.

His whole body ached, and his breathing made a strange whistling gurgle. He couldn’t get a full breath, and his eyes kept drifting closed.

Steve put his hand on Bucky’s arm “You get some sleep.”

While Bucky rested, Steve slipped out of the room. He returned with Sam who came running into the room still holding the spatula from the eggs he had been fixing. Sam’s grin at Bucky was so bright, maybe he looked worse than he thought.

Sleeping through the next few days, Bucky could stay alert longer every time he woke.

It turned out Steve had found a location that he insisted was safe. Bucky doubted Steve had much experience with staying on the lamb. Steve admitted he had help when Bucky questioned his skills. Insisting he had friends who were experts at keeping people hidden. 

In the end, it didn’t matter what Steve said. Every night, Bucky dreamt Hydra was kicking down his door. Strong arms yanked him from bed. Carried by his armpits, he helplessly struggled and jerked. They dragged him across the cold wood floor through pools of warm blood. Steve and Sam sat twisted on the couch, their throats slit. Steve’s sketchpad lay on the floor, a bloody Hydra boot print stained the cover. Bucky woke daily sweating and gagging. 

One sunny afternoon, Bucky was working his way through a novel about people in deep space. Sam had left him a big lunch, and the empty plate sat on the chair next to Bucky’s bed. The book was fast paced, and Bucky had been up all night reading. He was almost at the end, less than twenty pages left. Struggling to finish, he would read a few words, then the book would droop. Finally, he had enough and closed it. A stack of books lived on a table beside the bed. When he twisted to set the book on the stack, he froze. The Widow with the fiery hair stood in the doorway. 

Steve insisted Natasha was a friendly face. She hadn’t meant for his arm to get caught in the press. She had helped Steve find this safe house. She was the one hiding him. Bucky knew she worked for someone. The safe house had strings. They were being monitored, or the house itself was a high tech prison. Maybe they wanted him to have the illusion of freedom, hoping he would be content to stay. Bucky had learned not to trust. Steve was naïve. 

The Widow watched him silently, neither said a word. The house was silent. Sam had gone out earlier, would be back in the morning. Steve was silent. 

When Bucky glanced out the doorway, she also looked down the hall, added “He fell asleep sketching.” Bucky nodded, relieved. She smiled, “I just came by to pay a visit, see how well everyone is doing. I guess I came by at nap time.” 

“Can I leave here?” He asked straight to the point.

“I don’t know? Can you?” she asked back.

“What would happen if I try to leave?” 

She shrugged, “Then I guess Steve and Sam can go home.”

He frowned “No one would stop me?”

“Only four people know you’re here.” She looked down the hall, “But, I can’t say that no one would try to stop you.”

She didn’t stay much longer, and was gone before Steve woke.

That night the dream shifted and it was the Widow, Natasha Romanoff, dragging him through the pool of crimson blood. Her garrote still dangled from Steve’s throat where it cut through during the struggle. Sam lie lifeless on the floor with his neck twisted and broken.

The next morning, Bucky left. 

“I’m not him Steve. I don’t know who I am, but I’m not him, and this is hurting both of us.” Bucky said as he put on his shoes, unable to look Steve in the eyes. It was still difficult to bend, but Bucky didn’t let it show.

Steve swallowed, nodded then helped Bucky get ready, pulling clothes from the closet. He slipped Bucky some cash, tucked it into the pocket of a warm coat Steve picked out.

Walking out the front door, Bucky hoped it really was a safe house, not a prison. He made it to the bus station without a SWAT team swooping down, or even having a tail. Bucky half expected Steve to follow, but he never turned up. 

Having a bit of pocket money, made moving to Florida so much easier. It wasn’t an extravagant amount, but it was more than enough to get him on his feet without skipping meals. He wouldn’t have to make the decision between food or shelter.

Florida was all he expected, and much more than he expected. It was overwhelming. Gentle quiet beaches were a challenge to find. Most were noisy, full of happy families, and loud teenagers. He avoided them whenever possible. 

It took a bit of work, but he discovered a strip of sand near a pier, where the old fishermen go to sink their line. Rows of SUV’s towing boat trailers line up in a nearby parking lot. The lot ends at a couple of old cement ramps, with a short wooden pier. Before dawn, the natives drive their trailers right into the water. Within minutes, they are gone to return hours later as the sun sets. The rest of the day this place is quiet.

The old men at the pier mostly hail from New York. It didn’t take long before he realized that Florida was divided, much like New York. One area of Brooklyn had Italians, another Irish. Here, one area is from Jersey, another from Michigan. Bucky easily located the Brooklyn guys. Men who had lived in Brooklyn in an era that was so close to his own, that with every new face he wondered if this was some kid he knew back in the day. Some tiny toddler, who has lived a full life, and retired here after years of hard work, to stand on a pier and throw his line hoping to catch a pinfish. 

Pinfish aren’t good for anything but catching then throwing back. None of the old guys kept them. Just tossed them back into the water, hoped for something better. Bucky sat in the sand and watched the pier in the distance, the boats being launched in the morning, and returning in the evening. The half dozen old guys congregating at the waters edge, just enough space between them to cast a line, and close enough to gab when they wanted. 

Soon after arriving, Bucky bought himself a cheap Honda motorcycle and would spend his whole day riding. Bucky found out that Florida had acres of cow pastures, and miles of all sorts of farms. A farm stand sat at the edge of a field of strawberries. He bought a plastic basket full of berries and ate them sitting on his parked bike. Rode away with sticky gloves. It only took a few days, but he found himself an endless stretch of orange groves. He pulled over at the side of the road, sat under a tree and felt all of his muscles loosen.

The Honda wasn’t anything to look at, but it was his. It took him all over the state, from beaches, to swamps and everything in between. He would eat from roadside vendors, sampling foods he’d never heard of, like boiled peanuts. He picked up a paper bag of the slippery salty nuts most Sundays, even though he wasn’t sure if he liked them. Roadside vendors sat under bright umbrellas, with coolers of ice cold soda and crates of fruit or nuts. Their hand painted signs dotted the long stretches of farmland. Bucky would buy his lunch and ride to sit under a secluded tree. Occasionally, a car would rumble by. Mostly, it was just him, listening to the cicada and watching the warm breeze sway the tall pines. 

The Honda got him his job, which was cleaning out the back of a bike mechanic’s shop. Bucky wheeled the bikes into the bay for the shop owner to fix. A tattooed, pony tailed, young guy named Craig was the bike expert out front. He took the money, and wrote the receipts, cleaned the front of the shop, and sold chrome. The owner was the mechanic, Blue. It was a weird name and Bucky never asked. Blue did all of the real work, the bike fixing. That is all he did. He didn’t sweep, move the bikes in or out, or know how to use a trash can. 

The job was just what Bucky needed. Gave him purpose, a reason to get out of bed in the morning, and cash at the end of the week. He didn’t have to shave, or get a haircut, and they didn’t ask questions. They didn’t even seem to notice that he always had on long sleeves and a glove, even on hot days. Some days he would end up soaked in sweat before noon. He just changed into a new shirt and kept going. The locals would laugh, and had him pegged as a Yankee. Told him to stay hydrated. Overall, no one bothered him here. He did his job, and they did theirs. 

Bucky’s job wasn’t fun. It was dirty and hot. Daily, he climbs into the attic rafters where they have shelves piled high with air filters and belts. The ladder is steep, and it’s like climbing into a dusty oven up there. The worst part of the job was cleaning out the rolling trays of tools. Coffee cups full of soggy cigarette butts, sandwich wrappers, bits of cigarette pack, and all sorts of trash get tossed into the trays. When lunch time hits, Blue gets on his bike and rides, then Bucky spends the hour, picking bits of oily, greasy, trash out of the trays. Frequently, he’s still wiping coffee from the tools an hour later when Blue returns and tells him to wheel the next bike in. 

This job cost Bucky two pair of gloves a week, and often some dented pride. In the beginning, Bucky threw away an expensive gadget when he was cleaning the trays. He spent the afternoon rummaging through the hot filthy dumpster before he found it. He only stopped to throw up twice before he found it tucked inside a cigarette pack with an old napkin. Now, he sticks his finger into the cups of soggy cigarette butts, and shakes out all trash before throwing it away. At the end of the day, he takes the unused trash can from the corner of the shop and upends it into the dumpster. A few token scraps, and Bucky’s lunch trash tumble out. 

The job may be hot and dirty, but it is relatively stress free. Blue doesn’t like to talk when he works, a dismissive grunt tells Bucky to get out of the shop area and let him work. When Blue comes strolling out of the bay, wiping his hands on a shop rag, he’ll nod at Bucky and say “all yours”. That’s Bucky’s cue to take the finished bike out, and roll in the next one, while Blue goes up front and pours himself another coffee. 

After the bike is wheeled in, Blue returns, sets his coffee and donut on the tray of tools, ready to work on the next bike. Bucky then makes sure the invoice is completed, and tied to the handle bars of the finished bike. He always checks to make sure all of the disscarded boxes lying on the floor are billed on the invoice. If Blue forgets this part, when the customer shows to pick up the bike, Craig will get pissed that he doesn’t know what to charge. Blue will say “How the hell am I supposed to remember?” and they will both look at Bucky. “Why the hell isn’t there a tag on the bike?” will come out of someone’s mouth. Bucky doesn’t write the tag, but he makes sure someone did.

Neither Blue nor Craig are really good at working with people. A customer laughed a few days after Bucky started. Told Craig that after what happened with the last shop kid, they would be wise not to piss off the new one. Looks like the new guy could break your jaw, instead of just leaving a bruise. Craig can be a jerk, Bucky can see someone taking a swipe at him.

Craig is the opposite of Blue. He likes to talk, and he talks trash a lot. But, it turns out guys who get their oil changed at the shop like to hang out and talk. Craig usually has a couple guys at a time, hanging out, drinking coffee, and buying overpriced chrome. Some bikes have so much chrome, you can’t see the bike under it. 

Bucky has learned to park out back with the scrap bikes. That way he doesn’t get the weird looks from the Harley riders, who look down on anything not Harley, or the dismissive laugh from the rich bikers, who show up with custom made bikes that cost more than most people’s houses. Bucky’s bike is indistinguishable from the bikes that have to be scrapped. The ones that cost more to be fixed, than they are worth. It might only be another year before his bike becomes one of the junk it’s parked next to, but for now, it takes him where he needs to go. 

It is freedom. 

He never goes straight to his apartment after work. Doesn’t spend much time there at all, but to shower and sleep. Every evening, he rides to a secluded spot. Watches the vivid fiery orange glow of a Florida sunset set the water ablaze. Sits in the sand with his boots kicked off. Likes the feel of sand in his toes. Here, sipping a cold coke he finds peace. 

For a Brooklyn kid, winter evenings in Florida are warm. It’s almost sunset and Bucky can see the heat rise off the blacktop in waves, making his legs sweat every time he stops at a light. The warm air, barely cools as the sun approaches the horizon. 

He could sleep on the beach, but the local cops frown on this. When he found a spot he thought he could stay a while, Bucky rented someplace cheap. Found an old white clapboard bungalow near a pond he thought he might like. 

It reminded him of the pool house in the old couple’s yard. But this grumpy old couple rented him a run down shack with temperamental plumbing and a few pieces of thrift store furniture. One room made up the bedroom, living/dining area. There was a kitchenette against the wall, with a microwave, sink and miniature fridge. A small door opened to a coffin sized closet, the other to a bare bones bathroom. The couch sagged, but the mattress was firm. He counted that as a win.

His new place sat next to a retaining pond that harbored snakes, vermin, and bugs as big as Brooklyn mice. One night early on, Bucky left a window open all night. The battered screen was closed tight. It was a Florida winter evening, which for a Yankee city kid, was warm and deliciously perfect. Slight breeze, the air thick with pollen from the jungle of plants near the pond, crickets and frogs singing, he hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. Wearing nothing but his briefs, Bucky reclined on his bare mattress, read a paperback and drifted off. 

He woke to a scurrying sound. The bedside lamp was still on, and it took him only two seconds to pinpoint the sound. There were two big roaches slowly walking up a wall, antenna waving. Both were as long as his finger. Bucky had never been scared of a bug before, but these looked wrong. Like they wanted him out of their apartment. He was afraid to touch them, even with the metal hand. They charged him, and he quickly scrambled to grab a boot from the foot of the bed. 

They almost chased him out of his own place. In the end he won, but was too wired to sleep again. He immediately fixed his screen. Sat there in his underwear with a needle and thread, stitching the tiny tears back together while he swatted giant mosquitoes. His screen looks like Frankenstein, but it keeps the bugs out. Still, he tries not to leave too many lights on, or the bugs sit outside the screen, lined up and waiting when he wakes. Their cold eyes stare at him as he makes his morning coffee. Every morning he shakes out his clothes before putting them on. He doesn’t want to find one of those roaches in his drawers while riding the bike. He would probably run off the road. 

He’s been here a few months. Time has started to lose it’s hold, trapped in a perpetual summer. Rationally, he knows it’s turned to winter up north, there’s probably snow by now. It’s still dark when he wakes, rides down to the pier. Sits and eats a breakfast sandwich on the bench down by the bait shack. Watches the sun rise as big birds sit on the posts, stretching their wings. Amber a tall thin woman with light yellow hair, opens the bait shack and rings up the morning crowd. She sells shrimp and blocks of dark frozen stuff that Bucky doesn’t really understand. Bucky had an uncle who owned a shrimp boat, to catch shrimp. But these guys use tiny shrimp to catch inedible fish. Seems like a waste to Bucky, but the old guys seem to enjoy it. The birds watch the fishermen, and the fishermen sometimes throw the fish to the birds, so somebody eats a fish or two in the end.

An old guy named Frank yells over to his buddy. Tells him they’re out of orange soda, and that he’s getting him grape instead. Jerry just waves back, gets his red bobber on the line just right. Frank always sits in a folding chair six feet from Jerry. Jerry stands, but Frank has a bum knee. They don’t talk that much. They share bait, a cooler, and swap fishing gear from their tackle boxes. Every morning, they fish the same spot, ready to watch the sun rise.

The sunrises are as amazing as the sunsets, all pink and orange. The glow radiant as a forest fire over the pines. He sits in silence and watches as it lights up the water. Florida is everything that he expected and more. After finishing his sandwich, he gets on his bike and rides. 

He leaves everything behind, ready to ride a long haul. He didn’t have much in the way of stuff, a few old paperbacks, old gloves. He keeps a few spare pair gloves, a shirt, and a jacket tied on his bike. That, and the clothes on his back are all he needs. He rides for two days. Stopping for a few hours in the blue ridge mountains to watch the mist rise, merge with the clouds. He eats by the bike, and naps in a secluded spot at the back of a rest area. Sleeps on the pavement along side the bike. 

It’s before dawn when he’s parking next to another bike in the middle of the city. The bike is new, shiny and expensive. Kept clean and polished, it emphasizes the rust on Bucky’s bike, makes the thick scratch across the tank look like a war wound. Bucky’s bike is filthy with road grime. Looks like a battle veteran sitting next to the new recruit. The shiny bike is no new recruit, it has miles on it. It has been on it’s own journeys, it just doesn’t show the wear and scars on the outside. It has been taken care of, polished and shined like new. 

Bucky sits on the cold curb, watches the sun rise in the city. He doesn’t look up as the door behind him snaps open. The footsteps jerk to a halt. They start again, carefully moving closer. Bucky glances up as Steve lowers himself onto the curb next to Bucky. Steve is dressed to go running, crisp shiny sweats in red and blue. Bucky wonders if he does it on purpose.

Fishing a wad out of his boot, Bucky hands Steve the roll of bills. Steve looks surprised, and holds up his hand, not taking the money. “No, Buck. You can keep that.”

“You said it’s a loan. I’m paying it back.” Bucky insists, tucking the cash into a slot in Steve’s jacket. It might be a pocket, or just some weird vent, Bucky isn’t sure, doesn’t care.

Steve looks away when Bucky looks him in the eyes. He had been staring at Bucky, checking him over. Now he says “You look good. You’ve got some color on your face.” 

Bucky rubs his nose, knows it’s red, and his forehead too, not just from the cold air, but from sitting in the warm evening sun. He should wear sunscreen, doesn’t know if augmented healing fixes skin cancer, but he hadn’t found it in himself to care till recently. 

Climbing to his feet, Steve follows, dusting the dirt from his crisp sweat pants. Bucky’s jeans are stained with black smears from working in the garage. There’s a smudge of mustard on his right knee from yesterday’s hotdog. The old leather jacket Bucky wears is two sizes too big, but it’s the only way he can get it to fit over his metal shoulder. Still, the leather creaks and the seams pop when he bends. He has duct tape on the inside to ease the burden on the strained stitches. 

Bucky reaches out, runs a gloved hand over Steve’s bike. “It’s nice. Clean. You ever take it out? Get some miles on you?”

“Sometimes. Your bike’s got a lot of miles. That heap gonna get you where you’re going?” Steve smirks. He always was good at talking trash.

Bucky smiles back. “Get your gear. Lets find out.”


End file.
